The Kielder Strain: A Science Fiction Horror Novel

by Rebecca Fernfield

  55

  The chair makes tracks in the carpet as Javeen drags it closer to the fire. The glow and flicker of its orange flames dances on the hearth’s tiles. Laura catches her glance, smiles, then moves to stand.

  “I’ve left one of my bags in the boot of your car. Is it open?”

  Javeen considers for a moment. “Yep. I didn’t lock it.”

  Laura smiles again. The door opens and Conrad blocks Laura’s way as she reaches it. His is face flushed from the cold night air.

  “The front seems clear. I’ve checked all windows and doors. We’ve pushed as many cupboards and chairs up against the outside doors as we can find.”

  Laura waits patiently as Conrad relays his message. “Excuse me, Conrad. Could you let me through, please?”

  His usual smiling ease is replaced with a frown. “Where are you going?”

  “Well, I … I just need to get my bag from the car.”

  “We’ve locked everything down now, Mrs Anderson. Can’t it wait until morning?”

  “Oh, but it has my toiletries in it …”

  The flush on Conrad’s face deepens as he stares at her. “Well …”

  “There are things in there I need.”

  “… Ah. Well, alright ... but … I’ll come with you. You won’t be able to move the furniture on your own.”

  As they disappear through the door and out into the hallway, Javeen rises from the warmth of the fireside and follows them. The cold air of the corridor is a shock to her warmed skin and she shivers, pulling her jacket tight to her body. If the night gets much colder, getting any sleep will be unlikely. It will be tough getting to sleep in the large, unheated rooms of the castle with only a makeshift bed. Perhaps they should all make their beds in the room with the fire instead, and forget about their privacy? The thought brings its own relief—there is safety in numbers.

  She catches up with Conrad as he steps out into the cold evening. The sharp drizzle that had spat at them before has become driving sleet. She shivers as she steps next to him. Laura takes a tentative step towards the car as Conrad shines his torch to light the way.

  “Just a thought, Conrad, but instead of us all having separate sleeping areas in the castle, would it be better for us all to be in one room?”

  He keeps pace behind Laura. “I’m not sure Moira would like that. However, it does make sense. If we’re all in one room then we don’t have to worry about each other as much. I won’t be sleeping tonight though. I’ve drawn up the rota for a patrol—my watch is first.”

  The tension across Javeen’s shoulders eases a little; having Conrad in charge is a godsend.

  “There are to be two of us awake at all times. We’ll share the duties throughout the night.”

  Sleet spikes Javeen’s cheeks and she picks up her pace to match Laura’s, checking the courtyard and the rooftops for signs of movement. The car is parked to the left, in a bay outside what was once the stables. Heavy wooden gates are closed and barred beneath the stone archway of the castle entrance. Beyond that is a large expanse of grass dotted with picnic tables and a low wall that marks off the property from the village. The castle and its walls, made up of the outbuildings, are their only protection from the monsters that prowl through the village.

  Sleet spatters against her back as they reach the car. Javeen pulls her collar close to her neck, the cold bites at her fingers. Conrad shines the torch on the boot and Laura fumbles beneath its frame and presses the button to open.

  “It’s locked PC Latimer.”

  Javeen slides her fingers beneath the lock, feeling for the buttons, sure that she’d left the car unlocked.

  “It’s locked,” she confirms. “Sorry!” Her fingers sting with cold as she digs them into the pockets of her jeans and pulls out the keys. She points the fob at the car. Indicators flash and the boot unlocks with a soft click.

  Movement catches in Javeen’s peripheral vision and, as Laura lifts the lid, she snaps her head to look. On top of the slate tiles, balancing on the roof of the gatehouse, is Max Anderson. He draws back his teeth to a snarl as the boot’s lid rises. A flurry of movement inside. Laura screams and staggers, knocking Javeen backwards as a figure springs from the recess and jumps to the ground in one swift and powerful movement.

  Startled, Conrad jerks away, drops the torch, and staggers back. Laura twists to escape from the hands clawing for purchase against her body, trips and topples into Javeen. Both fall to the tarmac, Javeen’s foot trapped beneath her weight. She lands with a thud, her shoulder and hip taking the full impact, Laura’s weight pinning her down. She screams as pain tears through her leg.

  In the next second, the creature is on top of them, grasping for Laura. Sleet falls sharp against her face, wetting her hair, and stinging her eyes, as sharp claws dig deep beneath Laura’s clavicle. Her face contorts, their eyes locking for one dreadful second. Her fear absolute, the creature’s violence brutal. With a terrifying and primal strength, Laura is twisted and thrown to the floor and the creature straddles her. Within the next, a roar fills the space and Max Anderson jumps to the beast, digging clawed hands into its arms and throwing it from Laura. She lays inert as Max springs to the other male. They circle one another, lips drawn back from razor-sharp fangs, growling from the depths of their bellies. Javeen drags herself towards Laura. She gasps at the pain in her ankle as it catches on the cobbled stones.

  Max bares his teeth and snaps at the other male. Both circle, fists clenching, deep growls filling the air, eyes locked. Max pounces, knocking the male to the floor, sinking his fangs into its jaws, and pinning it to the cobbles. The male thrashes, but Max holds him down, digging claws into its shoulders. The male submits, quietens. Max retracts. Blood seeps from deep wounds in the male’s face. As it jumps to its feet and lunges across the courtyard, Max turns his attention to Laura and Javeen.

  Javeen scrabbles back, grits teeth as spikes of pain run through her ankle and up her shin. As Max reaches for her with clawed hands, the other male pounces on Conrad and he’s lost to her sight as he’s dragged into the shadows. A flash of blue, and Laura, blood staining her back, lunges between Max and Javeen.

  “Max! No!”

  Max grunts and steps closer.

  “No. Don’t hurt her.”

  From the shadows, Conrad’s strangled cry is silenced.

  Javeen shuffles towards the car and away from Max as Laura continues to beg, the biting pain dulled by the adrenaline coursing through her veins. As she pulls herself behind the car, Conrad’s torch illuminates the corner of the courtyard and she closes her eyes to the clawed hands swiping at his throat. Reaching the wheel arch, the thing that was Max Anderson wraps its arms around Laura and sinks its teeth into her neck. Javeen grasps for the door handle and pulls. As she drags herself inside, Max carries Laura in his arms to the gate. Bloodstains blossom over her jacket as her head lolls, eyes rolled back to white. Max lifts the steel bar laid across the gates, throws it across the cobbles, and opens them to the night. Figures crowd the gateway.

  Javeen pulls the door closed and locks the car as creatures flood the courtyard. Chattering, cackles, and excited howls mingle with the tack, tack of clawed feet across the cobbles, and Javeen slips from the back seat onto the floor.

  Thud!

  The car rocks. Javeen’s breath catches in her chest.

  Thud!

  The car rocks again as one of the creatures knocks against the door. It’s back to Javeen, she can’t tell whether it is male or female, though from the breadth of its shoulders it is – was – probably a man. It turns and steps away. For one brief moment its face is in silhouette. Despite its contorted face, deformed with a snarl and bone white fangs, Javeen recognises Thomas Burdon, the farmer who had chewed her ear off about the lynx conservation project.

  As she lies on the cramped floor, muscles tensed, breath shallow and quiet, the scratching chatter and cackles subdues. Hyenas! They’re like a pack of fucking demented, stinking, and murderous hyenas! Her foot throbs
.

  Pulling herself up to the window, she peers into the dark courtyard. The driving sleet has lightened to drizzle and, through the rain-spattered windows, the cobbles gleam in the moonlight. Conrad lies curled in grotesque, foetal parody against the wall. The monster that has slashed his throat gone, and there is no sign of Laura or Max Anderson.

  She sags against the door, forehead pushing up against the glass with an overwhelming dread, realising that the horde of monsters that filled the courtyard has disappeared inside the castle. The survivors don’t stand a chance.

  “Andy!” Her whisper is pained. “Andy.”

  Think, Jav. Think! Her mind is numb. Instinctively, she knows that leaving the car, going inside to fight the beasts, is impossible, would be suicide. Survival now means staying put, being small, invisible. But what if they can smell her? She swallows, her heart taps a hard beat at her ribs. She sinks back to the footwell, cramped against the back of the front seat, a sense of failure and crushing inadequacy biting into her. Her ankle throbs and hands tremble as shock takes hold. Nothing is real. Closing her eyes, she rests her head against the door and listens to the beat of her heart as its pulse throbs in her head. White noise fills her ears, blocking out the sound of sleet scratching against the windows.

  Time passes. Her body cools. A shiver runs over her skin, the sweat beneath her arms is dank. Her breath billows white. The freezing windows misted with her warm breath make the car a safe place—a cell. But what if they notice? What if one of them is still conscious enough – still human enough – to realise that something warm, something living, something with a beating heart, and pumping blood, warm and sticky, ready to be swallowed, is inside? What if - she swallows - what if they can smell her? Breath comes rapid as her thoughts bring a new torture. Calm down, Latimer! Get a grip. She takes a deeper breath to calm herself. It does little to ease the tension. The fogged-up car offers a hiding place away from prying eyes, but it traps her too. She can’t sit here, trapped, waiting to be discovered. Her bowels clench, suddenly watery. Andy! Andy, Andy, Andy. Please be safe. Please be alive.

  She pulls herself to peer through the windows, nose brushing against the fabric of the door, and rubs at the condensation, making a small hole in the mist. She squints. The courtyard is empty. Perhaps they’ve gone.

  She reaches for the key fob and presses ‘unlock’. The click ricochets against her eardrums. Jaws clench as the indicators flash, the orange lights gleaming on the wet cobbles. Damn! Damn! Damn! What if they’ve seen it? She slides back below the window, tense, muscles aching.

  Shuffling. A cackle. A clatter and knocking. The courtyard fills again with noise. They’ve heard! Hell! Heart pounding, she clears a tiny circle in the misted window—she has to see, face what’s coming.

  Figures run across the courtyard. A female passes, two males follow, one with a body slung across its shoulder. Javeen realises with a sickening lurch that it is Moira Shelby, Conrad’s wife. More figures spill out of the doorway. None look her way. She watches and waits. The creatures appear in small groups, some with the harvest of their hunt slung across their shoulders, and disappear through the gates until eventually a few stragglers thin out to nothing. She waits, counts the seconds. After ten minutes without sight of a creature, she reaches for the door and pulls the handle. It opens with a dull click. Freezing air blasts her cheeks. She pushes at the door with arms that have lost their strength.

  Movement in the doorway.

  She freezes, holds her breath, trapping it in her lungs, desperate to stay hidden. A figure appears. It staggers against the door’s frame then stumbles out into the courtyard. Andy!

  As he sinks to his knees, she pushes the door open and slides out onto the wet cobbles. In the distance, from the forest, a howl breaks through the patter of rain. On all fours, she crawls to Andy as he kneels on the cobbles, rain wetting his hair, water dripping from the tips of his nose and eyelashes. His shirt is torn, the ripped fabric soaked with blood.

  “It bit me.” His voice is rasping as he turns to Javeen. “Help me, Jav. Help me.”

  He jerks then, head thrown back as a spasm rips at his body. “Please!” He forces the words through clenched teeth.

  His face is contorted by pain, ugly in the harsh shadows of the outside lights as she crawls to him. He sags as another agonising spasm subsides.

  “Jav. Help me! The vials. Get the vials. Put me down!”

  “In the car! They’re in the car.”

  He grunts again as pain wracks his body then pushes up from his knees and staggers to the car.

  “In the glove compartment.”

  He throws the door open and leans in. “Got it.”

  He clutches a box and staggers away from the car as another wave of pain hits him. He jerks, back bending in a backwards arc, and the box lands on the floor. Glass clinks as the small bottles roll to the cobbles. In the next second, he crashes to the ground, knocking against the car’s bumper, crumbling next to Javeen. His skin glows pale in the light, highlighting the track and criss-cross of blue veins across his cheeks. Another spasm controls him and his head thrashes against the cobbles.

  “Stop! Oh, God. Stop!”

  Blood trickles over the stones as, with a grunt, and through gritted teeth, Javeen pulls herself to a sitting position and grasps Andy’s jacket. His weight is enormous, but she manages to manoeuvre his head onto her lap, stroking his forehead as his body spasms. Eyes roll back in his head. Blood has seeped into the whites.

  “Please … please …” He jerks again and growls, his jaw widening.

  Startled at the lengthening incisors, Javeen grabs for a vial. She reaches for a syringe, pulls off the protective plastic lid and points the needle towards the vial’s rubber top. How much should she give him? It was meant for dogs. It had killed the beagle at the Institute, but would it kill him? A punch to her belly at the thought. Kill him! Kill Andy? She quivers. She has never killed a man. Sure, during her training, she’d been taught to shoot, and to fight, but it was all defensive stuff. No part of her being had ever considered actually killing a man. Andy Bucks and groans, his eyes locked to the syringe. How can she kill a man that she loves?

  “Do it!”

  She sobs, her heart breaking as their eyes meet. His are almost entirely black, the white replaced with blood, the pupils huge. A shudder and she pricks the rubber stopper with the needle then draws the fluid into the syringe. Her hands tremble as she points it towards his throat. In the distance a howl. Her memories flash back to the beginning. How had this all happened? How had the entire village been destroyed in the space of a few days? She was entirely alone. What chance had she of survival? Every avenue of escape has been closed. The woods are infested, her theory about them being nocturnal wrong. So far, all efforts at escape had ended in disaster. She is the last survivor. But for how long? How long before she is torn to shreds, disembowelled, her innards feasted on? Her belly clenches and bile rises in her throat. How long? A week? A day? Through this night? One more hour? She shudders as Andy groans and writhes against her. She holds his head close to her belly, keeping him still as another fit overwhelms him. The tips of his incisors now rest on his lower lip, blood seeps from broken skin as his face contorts.

  She throws the syringe to the cobbles and waits for his bite.

  Epilogue

  TEN YEARS LATER

  Kielder Forest,

  17th November, 4:40pm

  An hour has passed since Jake left the path, forty-five minutes since he tried to find his way back, and thirty since he noticed the snapping branches and rustling leaves. He wipes away the sweat trickling at his temple. Shining the torchlight, he searches through the darkening woods for a way out. Each tree looks the same as the last. He fingers the map in his pocket, squeezing the paper between index and thumb. What the hell had he been thinking of coming here? It was Marston’s fault. He should have just ignored the man.

  Another branch snaps, but this time it’s closer. Startled, Jake pushes away from
the tree and lurches forward. His boot clips a raised root snaking across the forest floor and he stumbles, drops his torch, and catches his outstretched palm against rough bark. It gouges the soft flesh and Jakes sucks in his pain through gritted teeth. “Goddamn it!”

  Another branch snaps behind him as he reaches for the light.

  The hairs on his neck prickle, and he freezes mid-bend. Heart hammering, he grabs for the torch. He has to see it. Whatever it is, he has to see. He swings the light in an arc and checks the dark spaces. The light barely makes a dent in the thickening gloom. He can see nothing but branches, low shrubs and the roots that rise from the soil like thick and ugly worms. Scratching comes from a patch of low undergrowth about three feet to his left. He trains the light there. Leaves shake, and something scurries, then darts from the undergrowth—probably a rat. Jake sags with relief. Idiot! Just calm the hell down. He takes another quick breath to ease the tightness of his chest and leans up against the tree, his back pressed against the bark, and shivers. There was something dead about these woods.

  When the light was better, when he still had his bearings straight, he could see between the trees to the decaying forest. There, rotting stumps, and the massive up-turned roots of wind-blown trees, were grown over with bright green moss. The moss undulated, smoothing the harsh lines of the broken trees, and they sat like gargoyles leering from the gloom as a low and rolling mist spread across the forest floor. You couldn’t make the place creepier if you tried. Jake curses Dr Peter Marston and his damned secret for the tenth time since he’d lost his way in the forest. No, it was before that. He’d cursed him when the sat nav had quit working and he’d had to follow the map. He’d cursed him yet again when the track had become impassable and then again when he’d had to climb over the rusting wire fence that marked the forest boundary. The fence, which ran in either direction, and as far as the eye could see, was hung with a large red sign painted with white lettering: ‘DANGER. FIRING RANGE. NO UNAUTHORISED ENTRY. DANGER OF DEATH’. He’d ignored the warning, determined to prove that the old man was sane, and that his damned boss was up to no good. If Dr Marston’s ravings were true, the sign was just another ruse to put people off from entering and, from the dilapidated state of the fencing, it looked as though it had worked.